On Golden Ages and Silver Screens
by ubikity
Summary: Alternate title: "The Devil and Frankie Catalina". Frankie Catalina confronts the fickle nature of fame and fortune. Oneshot.


_AN: Yeah, I wrote a Monkees fic sans Monkees. Mammoth Pictures/Studios have appeared in numerous films and television programs through the years, so for the purposes of this fic, The Monkees' Mammoth Studios is the same Mammoth Pictures as in the _Beverly Hillbillies _episodes #73-76 and #87-89._

* * *

For the last five years or so, Mammoth Studios had come to be regarded as the purgatory of the film industry. Almost everyone ended up there eventually, at least for a little while. Some, like Joanie Janz, managed to turn out a box office hit and ascended to A-list status. Others, like Kitty Devine, no matter how they pleaded, were stuck churning out alleged comeback film after alleged comeback film (or alleged breakout film, in Kitty's case), slowly fading from the public consciousness until they were forced to do toy commercials.

Frankie Catalina hoped he'd be the former. He'd been confident of it, in fact, until he discovered the offer of a mystery movie wasn't an offer at all but rather recruitment for open auditions. For the bumbling sidekick role, no less.

Frankie had been furious. He'd become even more incensed when his manager called him during his manicure the next morning and reminded him that good looks don't last forever. Also, the manger'd added more gently, it'd been nearly nine months since Frankie'd had a new film out, and _Beach Beauty Blowout _had bombed spectacularly. He really couldn't afford walking out on _I Married a Creature from Out of Town, _but he'd gone and done it anyway.

So Frankie carefully pomaded his hair and donned a grey wool suit and taken a taxi down to the auditions, only to be bumped into by a fat, balding, middle aged man who looked to be a perfect fit for the role. Frankie sneered and checked to make sure he hadn't scuffed his shoes.

"Ed Johnson," the man said, sticking out his hand. "Better known as Captain Crocodile."

Frankie searched his mind for either name and came up blank. "Frankie Catalina." Ed shook Frankie's hand vigorously.

"New arrival in LA, then?" Ed said, contempt almost dripping onto the floor.

Frankie resisted the urge to put the idiot in his place. Why, that was no way to talk to the king of the drive-ins, for crying out loud, or the face that had been featured on the cover of _SixTeenBeat_, or the next in the grand legacy of Rudolph Valentino, Clark Gable, James Dean… He bit his tongue as his manager's words rang in his head. "I've been in pictures."

"And I've had my own television series. Experience means nothing when it's pandering to kids. In fact, it's more of a hindrance than anything."

Frankie scowled and continued down the hallway.

* * *

The secretary smiled sadly at him. "We had to scrap the mystery picture in favor of another Western."

"Oh." _Well, it's not like it was a big loss_, Frankie thought. "Could I audition for that instead?"

The secretary shook her head. "MD's already cast it."

"That… seems quick. Is MD the owner of the studio?"

According to the girl, MD was actually the owner's crazed banker. "We have to scramble every time Mr. Drysdale phones and says the owner and his family are popping over for a visit." She continued with an air of confidentiality, "They're new oil money; they still think silent movies are state-of-the-art."

Frankie didn't know what to say to that, so he just stood there.

The secretary shrugged. "Like my uncle says, we have to do whatever it takes to keep our jobs, especially in this industry."

"Your uncle?"

"He's the studio head. Pretty much my entire family works here in some capacity." Her eyes took on a dreamy glaze. "He keeps saying he'll put me in a picture some day; turn me into a real star." Coming back down to earth, she told him that they'd likely resume production on the mystery next week, once the owner's temporary interest had faded.

Frankie left the studio feeling disgusted, although he wasn't entirely sure why.

* * *

Frankie wandered down the street, turning at random. Soon, he was in a part of town he didn't recognize. The dusty pawnshops were a far cry from the more upscale boutiques he frequented. Frankie stopped in front of one window featuring a number of instruments: several guitars, a miniature organ, a harp. Frankie tried to imagine the people the instruments had once belonged to. Frankie hoped his stuff never wound up in a pawn shop window reeking of discarded dreams. He felt a pop of air beside him.

"Are you a musician?" the suddenly-appeared man asked.

"No, I'm an actor." Frankie puffed out his chest a little. "I'm Frankie Catalina."

"I go by Zero." Frankie couldn't help but get the feeling he was being sized up as beady eyes met his own. "I run this shop."

Frankie buried his hands in his pockets. "Well, I don't think I'll be buying anything, because like I said, I'm not a musician." He turned to go.

"I wouldn't leave so fast; I've known plenty of actors too."

"What did they have to sell you?" Frankie scoffed.

Mr. Zero ignored his question. "Do you remember Dash Riprock?"

Frankie didn't.

"He was the hottest star for Mammoth, turning out beach picture after beach picture in '64."

"Where is he now?" Right after he said it, Frankie wondered if it were perhaps best if he didn't know.

"He went back to pumping gas in Peoria."

"I'll be the face that sticks." Frankie' voice shook, betraying the fear that had been building in the week since he left the cast of _Creature_.

Mr. Zero leaned in close. "Would you sell your soul?"

Frankie shivered. "Maybe I already have."


End file.
